Tomorrow won't come
by Swamy
Summary: He keeps intending to fall out of love with her, really. tomorrow.  - Prompt from the "Screw You Canon! Merlin Art/Ficathon


Short note to the smart people that come here to brag about incest: go and read the legends. If you don't like it don't open this page, and don't read the story. It's easy to avoid stories that do not meet your taste, you see, that's what summaries and genre are there for. Thank you very much.

When the sun came up that day, fighting the gray clouds that were trying to suffocate the sky, it was only to find the castle reverting to its former splendour.

Everyone had worked hard under his direction and Arthur had not avoided working himself. It was the first day that the castle was finally calm and he had nothing else to do but face the empty throne, and the chair that once was occupied by the proud presence of Morgana.

She had betrayed him, and put his father's life at risk, filling his own people's days with dread. He hated her; of course he did.

"You shouldn't feel responsible, Arthur," Gwen had told him in her gentle voice, just a few minutes before, as he fixed Morgana's wing of the castle with a hard stare. "It's only understandable for you to despise her". He had only nodded and prayed silently to feel that hate forming inside him, feel the physical presence of it. Like the stone that had replaced Morgana's eyes, shielding the world from the light that had once shone inside of her.

He was waiting still, to feel that hate reveal itself to him.

He was looking for it inside his soul. He was waiting for it to flow to his heart, so that loathing could blossom where right now something warm was burning to guide him to that atrocious tenderness, a melancholy tenderness made up of wooden swords and her voice calling out to him when she slipped inside his room after they had been put to bed. That unbearable sensation felt as green as Morgana's eyes when she was happy but very soon – as soon as he recalled whose side she had chosen to be on, whom she had chosen over him – it turned blue, like Morgana's eyes filled with sadness.

He was only glad Merlin did not ask him about it or mention her. He was only glad of Gwen's conviction that his silence was dictated by unutterable hate. He was only glad his father could not accept what had happened, let alone speak of it. He was only glad he was alone now so that if his eyes became wet watching her seat next to the throne – because he was exhausted, and something deep inside him could never find its rest – then no one could think that he wished desperately for her to be by his side, because he did not.

His father was alive, his people were well, Gwen was with him. What did it matter if he couldn't go through the corridors, or pause in any corner, without turning to catch a glimpse of a red dress? What did it matter if he found himself listening to every footstep to recognize perhaps her graceful walk? What did it matter if something inside him seemed to bleed just at hearing her name spoken with disdain from the mouths of strangers that had never been driven mad by her beauty, by her sense of justice?

Everything was fine.

She had been nothing but a childhood crush, and obviously he had found love with Guinevere. And her absence didn't make his heart ache. It didn't, really it didn't.

It wasn't as if he loved her still. It wasn't as if he hated every morning sun that had the audacity to rise without her to shine upon. It wasn't as if he tried stupidly every night to hear the rhythm of her breathing as she slept in her chambers.

It wasn't as if he could never stop loving her.

If his tiredness wasn't too great to stop him from concentrating for a moment – surely – he would have clearly felt a keen hate forming in his gut. If he could not loathe her yet it was only because his mind was over-occupied with his people and with his father's recovery; and because his heart was too full of joy, because he had succeeded in protecting Camelot, and because Gwen was finally back.

Why worry about the absence of a feeling that would surely grow inside him any moment now?

Maybe he could not hate her yet. Maybe now he was praying for the warm touch of her hand upon his shoulder, for the sweetness of her breath against his skin as she talked to him in that voice of hers that could be so very soft. But, he knows, soon his love for her will be a distant memory. Very soon his heart will stop bleeding for her and anything that once was will die, leaving him free from the ghost of her fiery spirit and her forgotten innocence.

Yes, very soon. Just for now he won't hate her. Just for now he cannot hate her. She who was his companion and his friend. And his shameful love.

Morgana, whose name echoes from the walls of his mutilated soul, sounding like a promise he so desperately wants to believe in.

For now he can't, but he will, soon. Very soon. Maybe tomorrow. Yes, surely tomorrow. (Morgana could always tell when he was lying) 


End file.
